


Jesus Was a Cross-Maker

by MooseFeels



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Come Marking, Hickeys, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, M/M, Marking, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 19:04:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15540954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseFeels/pseuds/MooseFeels
Summary: (he's a bandit and a heartbreaker)Viktor loves Yuuri, and Yuuri wants him to show the world.





	Jesus Was a Cross-Maker

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Lyubovnyie Metki-- prompt was "marks" and "glasses."

The problem-- and it's not really a problem, per se-- is that it's fucking  _ cold.  _ It's a thing Viktor is loathe to call a problem because it's not really a thing that's within his control. He lives here. It's his decision. He should live with it, like an adult. Further, it's not even as cold here as it is back in Russia, even now in the last weeks of the winter, just at that edge before spring decides to burst through.

The problem isn't really that it's cold. The problem is the turtleneck. 

Viktor spends good money on his clothes. Outlandish amounts of money on his clothes. Viktor remembers the swish of cheap polyester from when he was a kid, scrounged from whatever thrift store his mom dragged him to. All they could afford-- rink fees and coaching fees and skate rental so expensive, not to mention dinner and heat and rent. Viktor remembers itchy wool blends and cotton that went waterlogged immediately and worn elastic and holey socks. And Viktor remembers how when sponsorships first started coming through, buying his own clothes, new, for the first time. 

Sometimes, people will tease him for this. For being such a princess about things like new towels and fresh socks and t-shirts woven in pima cotton that rests so silky and smooth in his hand. For the buttery leather gloves he uses at the rink, for the shoes that cushion his abused feet. Sometimes, people will tease him for this, but not people that know him and know where he's come from and how hard he's worked. Never Yakov and never Chris and never, ever his Yuuri. 

Anyway, the problem isn't really the weather; the problem is that even a cashmere blend turtleneck with a forgiving cowl and a hand that whispers over his body is fundamentally a turtleneck and Yuuri has left a vivid collar of sore purple and yellow and blue bruises around his neck and down his chest and shoulders. 

Viktor's just glad he's not in the rink today. Having to navigate this in the locker room would be wholly untenable. Having to skate like this would be even worse. Still, though, he has to go to the grocery store, and that means he has to leave the house, and if he doesn't want a glare from the old ladies at the corner market that can cut glass, that means a turtleneck. 

Viktor tips a couple cans of chickpeas into his basket alongside the onion and leek and broccoli he has in there already. Yuuri's going to be cooking something later in the week, so Viktor is working from his list, too. It's training season, so he's on an eating plan, but things are a little more forgiving now in April then they will be a month or so from now. He can indulge (and it is indulgence) in a bowl of pasta along with the egg whites and tofu and piles and piles and piles of vegetables. 

Viktor pays and leaves and heads back to their flat. It'll be a couple of hours before Yuuri is home, still working in the studio. Their hours are different, set so that Viktor is back a little earlier to make the bed and do laundry and shower, and so that Yuuri can leave a little later, sleep a little more, be awake a little later into the night. 

Viktor slides the groceries into the fridge. He shakes a pill out of the bottle for his hip-- it's been troubling him more often recently. He swallows it dry, before feeling a phantom stab of guilt and pouring himself a small glass of water to wash it down. 

Viktor turns around, and Yuuri's there, in the kitchen. 

"Yuuri!" Viktor exclaims. "I didn't--"

"You wore your turtleneck," Yuuri says. 

It's hard to figure out the one thing that draws Viktor to Yuuri. At first it was his dancing; at how his spine and hips and shoulders animated all together, practically liquid in the breathlessly beautiful way he moved. That was at first. Then there was his smile, sober, weeks later. Crooked and a little unsure. And then his voice, soft and tired. And his eyes. And his laughter and the unfaltering, serious, thoughtful things he says. And him-- all of him. 

_ Why do you love me? _ Yuuri had asked him once, in the dark dark night. 

_ How could I not?  _ Viktor had answered.. 

"You wore your turtleneck," Yuuri says, his voice low and serious in the kitchen. 

Viktor swallows drily. 

Of course, how could he forget Yuuri's curious possessive streak, too. 

"I had to get groceries," Viktor answers. "I thought maybe it would be best if I didn't have to explain to the little old ladies."

Yuuri's pink lip, full and beautiful, pokes out into a small pout. "Vitya," he sighs. His eyebrows pull over the top of his glasses, pulled into that plaintive little crease that makes something in Viktor's chest clench. 

Yuuri reaches forward, to toy with the edge of Viktor's sweater, to pull it over his head, to leave Viktor shirtless in his kitchen. 

Yuuri bites his lip.

"Want everyone to know you're mine," he murmurs

"I model for you, Yuuri, I think everyone knows," Viktor answers, before he can stop himself.

After the gala, that was how Viktor found him. He took a job, ostensibly to help with bills, modeling for Yuuri's figure drawing. Yuuri didn't realize for three weeks that Viktor wasn't cashing the checks; he didn't realize for two more that Viktor's visa wouldn't let him. 

Yuuri's sweatshirt is too big for him. All of his clothes are, hanging off his shoulders, his hips, his hands. And most of them are dotted and smeared with clay and slip, too. A true artist, his Yuuri, always bringing a little bit of his work home with him.

Yuuri huffs a little sigh, magnified in the silent apartment. He wads Viktor's turtleneck up in his hands, and tosses it away. Surges forward and runs his hands over the broad plane of Viktor's chest, settling down his sides to rest on his hips. 

Yuuri's hands are rough. Viktor loves this about him. 

"Vitya, come back to bed," Yuuri says. 

Viktor can't tell him no. He's not sure he ever could. 

He follows Yuuri through the flat to the bedroom, and Yuuri pulls him into the bed, on top of him, with Yuuri propped up against the back headboard, the pillows. Weaves his fingers into Viktor's hair and tugs him forward. 

HIs voice leaks between them, between the kisses that Viktor lays on his mouth, on his cheeks, on his jaw, on his neck. 

Viktor's hands shakes as he slides them under Yuuri's shirt to pull it up, over his head. 

"Mmm," Viktor murmurs. "Delicious, my Yuuri."

Yuuri laughs, just a little. Like light on the air. "Why are you so naughty, Vitya?" He asks. "I leave you all pretty all marked up and you don't let anyone see my artwork. The best work in my gallery!"

Viktor smiles, feeling foolish and wolfish.

"I thought you were throwing today," Viktor says, not answering his question.

"My clay isn't coming," Yuuri sighs, rolling his eyes behind his glasses. "Minami placed the order wrong."

Viktor shakes his head. He moves to pull his pants off. He tuts. 

"As if your protoge is any better," Yuuri huffs. "I think I prefer over eager to so  _ angry _ ."

"How about perhaps you don't manage my office and I do not manage yours, hmm?" Viktor asks, nimbly sliding his hands under Yuuri's t-shirt to tug it up, off, over his head.

Viktor looks at Yuuri's exposed torso and licks his lips. The soft, pale landscape of Yuuri's shoulders, Yuuri's chest, Yuuri's belly. The occasional freckle, his nipples, the scar on his side where his appendix was removed as a child. Viktor, hungry to touch, to kiss, to bite, to-- 

"Vitya," Yuuri murmurs, dragging the last syllable of his name all the way out. A little whine. "Are you going to just look or are you going to  _ touch _ ?"

Yuuri's brown eyes are clever and sharp behind his glasses. 

Viktor growls, playfully, and he rushes forward to kiss Yuuri's throat, in the space right between his neck and shoulder. 

And Viktor, he runs his tongue flat on that space and he  _ bites.  _

Yuuri's breath catches, ecstatically. It's sharp in Viktor's ear, and Viktor smiles against his skin there. 

"Viktor!" Yuuri cries out. "Viktor!"

"My Yuuri," Viktor answers, sitting up, looking him dead in the eye. "Can I help if _ I _ want to leave work on you too?"

Yuuri smiles, and his eyes have gone a little heavy, sultry and seductive. Yuuri pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. 

_ Oh, to be that lip, _ Viktor thinks. 

"Mmm," Yuuri moans, just a little. "Will the artist be using his own paints?"

Outside, it begins to snow.

Viktor reaches over to the nightstand beside their bed and fumbles a drawer open and pulls out the lipstick.  

Yuuri's eyes watch the pillar of color slide into view as Viktor twists the bottom of the tube. The color is a blue-toned red; a bright, rich, velvety sort of color. Wanton; brazen. 

Viktor slides the lipstick on, grateful that he had the presence of mind to wear lipbalm before he left the house this morning. He feels the color spread from the corner of one lip to the other, trace the fullness of his bottom lip, the faint bowing of his upper lip. It drags, just barely, just enough to let Viktor know he's pressed hard enough, that the color will really settle there as it should. He presses his lips together and looks at Yuuri. 

"How do I look?" Viktor asks him. 

"Come closer," Yuuri replies. "See for yourself."

Viktor creeps closer, into Yuuri's personal space, and looks at himself reflected in the glass of Yuuri's eyeglasses. The frames are different than the cheap blue ones Yuuri had when Viktor first met him. These are larger, with a more delicate frame, that curve around his eye instead of hiding them. The larger, rounder surface makes for strange sort of mirror for Viktor to look into, to see himself reflected back, to see his mouth painted so noticeable, so sensual, so lovely. 

Yuuri has that way about him; to make Viktor see even the strangest things of himself lovely. Yuuri has that way about him; to show the world itself in his eyes. 

Viktor peers forward a little more, careful to lean into the light correctly to see himself and not just stare right past at the delicate skin beneath Yuuri's brown eyes. Viktor looks forward a little more, and his breath fogs  the surface of Yuuri's glasses.

Viktor is close enough now to him to see his pores. Legs straddling his hips, back and chest pulled up tight and close. 

Yuuri is irresistible, this close to Viktor. 

Viktor, fool that he is, has never been able to resist.

Viktor falls to kiss Yuuri on his cheek, his spine curving down quickly, like his strings have been cut. He lays a kiss on Yuuri's mouth, crooked over his lips. He kisses the column of Yuuri's throat, down from his jaw and down to his adam's apple and down to his chest, to his breastbone that rests above his full stomach, his navel, the spill of his hips that lead to his plush, beautiful ass. 

Viktor loves soft things; so much of his life has been so brutally hard and cold. The ice that rises to meet him as he falls. The never earned approval of his mother. The stern tone of his coach's voice. The reality that not too long from now, Viktor's body will finally (finally) fail his art and he will have no degree, chronic pain, and the angular face and body of someone who was once a little famous. Yuuri, though, is warm and soft. Yuuri, whose body gives under Viktor's hands, the edges and shape of him cradled and unabused. 

Viktor wishes he could explain-- not just the privilege of how soft Yuuri treats him but with how soft his body is in Viktor's embrace. Strength that doesn't starve, doesn't blister, doesn't emerge hard from under his skin. Wishes he could make Yuuri understand, how helpless Viktor is to love everything about him. 

Viktor kisses Yuuri and leaves on him a caravan of vermillion cumulae that trail from his face down his body, down his belly, to those places where Viktor finds Yuuri unbelievably beautiful.

"Vitya," Yuuri mutters, sighing self-satisfied. "Vitya, fuck me."

Viktor nods. "Yes," he says. "Yes."

He and Yuuri shift a little, Viktor sliding Yuuri's leg between his. Viktor is already hard, and he pulls his underwear off. Yuuri licks his lips. 

"Want to paint you, Yuuri," he says. "I'm not the only artist in this flat."

"Yes, Viktor," Yuuri says, his soft chest heaving. "Please."

Viktor takes his cock into his own hand, and he takes Yuuri too. He thanks God, not for the first time, for his large hands, easily taking both of them and grasping them firmly. Yuuri's pubic hair brushes against his knuckles. He jacks them both, feeling his hips roll with the movement, feeling Yuuri's hips roll too.

Yuuri's mouth is half-painted red from the hand-me-down lipstick. His glasses are crooked; smudged.

Yuuri falls away from language as Viktor lets him go, grinds ino the space where Yuuri's leg and hip connect, feeling the pressure so different, so lovely. Feels Yuuri hard back against him. 

Yuuri's hand claw into Viktor's back, hard enough Viktor is sure he must draw blood.

Yuuri loses breath, starts moaning, starts keening, starts wailing. The only time Viktor hears Yuuri's voice so loud in his ears is in bed like this, the volume of him ever the brightness of pleasure.

Viktor hears his own breath like percussion in his ears. He kisses Yuuri, leans down over him. Feels Yuuri's soft, sweating body against him like electricity.

The snow falls harder; the light in the room shifts with it. Overcast parts to dazzling brightness, illuminating the bedroom. The crumple of the sheets beneath Yuuri. The smallest crease between his brows. The eyes wrenched shut. Viktor kisses over Yuuri's eye; leaves a red smudge there, nestled in his dark brow. Viktor fucks into the space between Yuuri's thigh and hip and as he feels the approach of his orgasm. Feels it shake him like thunder as he grips his cock and washes Yuuri's chest with his come. 

Funny, how the red lipstick smears when the come drags against it. Beautiful, the tone of Yuuri's skin underneath.

Viktor, hands shaking, reaches over to Yuuri's cock and runs his thumb over the erect length of it. Swipes the pad of his thumb over the head and jacks him, Yuuri shuddering through his own orgasm. 

Yuuri's panting echoes in the silent bedroom. Viktor imagines it sounds louder, the snow insulating the sound of the city from outside. 

They lay there a moment, both of them. Viktor just close enough to Yuuri's warm body to feel the heat of him like a phantom beside his skin. His Yuuri, tangled in his sheets, so unbelievably beautiful. Marked in all the ways Viktor could mark him. 

Yuuri's eyes are sleepy and lazy when the flick over to look at Viktor. His smile is loose and roguish. 

"Did you make me beautiful?" He asks. 

It makes Viktor's heart skip a beat, his stomach turnover, his breath stutter, to hear his unbelievably beautiful Yuuri ask him such a thing.

But instead of trying to answer, Viktor leans over, that barest glimpse of distance between them, and kisses him. Yuuri's tongue lazy in Viktor's own mouth, Yuuri's mouth lose and open and sloppy. 

Later, after they shower and after they get dressed again, they will stand in the entryway of the apartment, ready to leave. And Yuuri will pull on his shoes and his coat and Viktor will trade his turtleneck for a crewneck, letting the world (even the gossiping old ladies) see the riot of bruises Yuuri has left on his neck. But he'll also slide on his lipstick and leave a mark, bright, on Yuuri's cheek. And Yuuri, he will not wipe it away. 

  
  



End file.
